


I Might Need Help out of This Darkness

by rollingwave



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rollingwave/pseuds/rollingwave
Summary: A take on how they met.Robicheaux is slowly drinking himself to death and Billy is.. Well Robicheaux isn't really sure what he's up to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't stop thinking about these two so yeah there's more coming

He wasn’t doing well, he was aware. Far too much drinking, and too much time to himself. The saloon was bustling with noise: loud voices arguing over bets, whiskey, and women; the clatter of glasses; stomping of heavy boots on the wooden floor. Yet his mind was anxiously quiet, and that’s when the memories came back. The drink would help. It used to. Even though he nowadays needed much more to blur the images behind his eyelids.

There was a gentleman at the bar, a stranger, with his back towards Goody, yet every time Goody shook himself out of a red splattered memory, he would meet the stranger’s eyes as he nervously glanced around the saloon. The stranger didn’t quickly avert his gaze, as would be the polite thing to do, just stared until he slowly turned around in his seat again. Goody was far too close to the bottom of a flask of whiskey to care, to worry about what the stranger was thinking. He had tried for so long to keep his horrors to himself, and he knew that it was only a matter of time until they made themselves known to the rest of the world, loud and clear.

When the flask was empty, Goody still had enough sense in him to realise that he shouldn’t bother having any more. The nightmares wouldn’t budge tonight, no matter what he did.

He was grateful the saloon was still filled with the chaos of alcohol, and he used it to hide his stumble as he rose from the chair. It still fell over, but no one batted an eye. Had they known who he was- his stomach churned at the thought, a sickening tight curl, they surely would have paid more attention, he knew. He quickly turned towards the bar. _Could it be- Did the stranger know his face? Had he spent a whole night collecting notes: “I saw Goodnight Robicheaux the other week- you won’t believe it! Drunk off his ass, and hands shaking like a little girl! Sharpshooter? Now that’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one!”_ A mocking tone rung out in his head, and he shook it to urge it away. The movement made him sick. Squinting across the room, he saw that the stranger was gone, and instead he met the eyes of a lady, who sent back a smirk. He looked away, and started towards the stairs. He didn’t bother pulling the chair up again, too aware of the dangerous way he was swaying just to stay on his feet.

 

He slept late. The sun was pressing against the curtains when he woke, his skin clammy and hot under the blanket. The dream he had been fighting slipped away as he came to, but the feeling of it stayed. He was grateful: most days he woke with awful images, straining for air, and sometimes even a knock at the door. _You alright in there, mister?_ Yes, he was fine, always fine.

He made himself dress, and washed his face quickly, trying to avoid the dirty mirror on the wall. He knew he was looking awful, for god’s sake, he could _feel_ it. The stubble on his cheeks threatened to curl into a real beard, his hair clung to his forehead, too long and shaggy. He put on his hat, and hurried out the door.

 

Same table as yesterday, same chair, hat down low over his eyes. He wouldn’t risk it tonight, anyone recognizing him. He couldn’t trust his own memories either, maybe he even knew the man from yesterday, he just had forgotten. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He knew the stranger from the bar had been just that- a stranger. He didn’t know any chinamen, if that was where he was from, and he was sure that’s not a thing he would have forgotten.

It was still early for dinner, but Goody ate anyway. One big meal a day he could afford, but not for much longer. The room was cheap, the drink strong, and he liked this town- what he’d seen of it on the ride in, anyway. He’d barely left the inn since then.

He had a man look after his horse, but he knew soon he wouldn’t even afford that. He’d need to do something soon, or he’d be stuck here- without a bed, without the horse, without the drink. The latter bothered him the most, and maybe that said a lot about him. He had another gulp and tried to think of something else.

 

As the afternoon sun circled the saloon, the tables slowly filled. He was left alone, as usual, which he was grateful for. It seemed to be easier today, for some reason; he could dodge the hauntings in his mind, and he saw the opportunity to hold back on the drink, taking it in slow sips. He’d been drinking for a while though, and no matter the speed, in the late night, he could feel himself sinking into that warmth, a slight slouch to his shoulders. He held up his glass, measured the remains, and gave the room a quick glance. Back again, by the bar, was his stranger. Goody somehow knew, even though he could only see the man’s slender shoulders, his wide belt of- _was that knives?_ Goody tried to make out the shape of a gun, but the man didn’t seem to be carrying one. Goody wondered how a chinaman dared to walk around with that much confidence, or maybe perhaps the absence of a gun was the trick, what let him move freely. He was curious, to say the least. He was almost sure now, that the man didn’t know him, didn’t know just who he was. Goody wasn’t full of himself, but he knew his reputation, and if the stranger had known, he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t had been able to leave it at that, leave after just observing. As if he had eyes in his neck, or a super sense of sorts, the stranger turned at looked straight at Goody. No, there wasn’t any recognition in those eyes, no ill-willed taunts. In fact, Goody couldn’t tell nothing from the man’s blank stare. Goody squinted at him, trying to make out any kind of clue, but the man was unreadable. He was just sitting there, dully, on hand on his drink, the other resting on his knee. Goody was almost sure he wasn’t a chinaman: he had a straight nose, dark eyes, a thin moustache above a small mouth. Not that a chinaman couldn’t have that, of course, but there was something…

He suddenly realised that he had no idea how long he’d been staring, and eventually he couldn’t help but to look away. The stranger didn’t seem bothered.

Goody could feel himself get flustered, the drink helping blood reach his cheeks, and he tucked the hat back down again. The man intrigued him, perhaps too much, perhaps in a way Goody had tried to ignore for a very long time. He didn’t usually let himself think of it, of other men, not only because it was, well, _illegal_ , but it was also so much harder than with women. Of course, just the thinking wasn’t illegal, per se, but for Goody it rarely stopped with the thought. His nightmares made him drink, the hauntings in his mind forced him to bed, and maybe this thought would push him somewhere as well. He couldn’t risk it.

Not that it would be impossible with this stranger though, he pondered- unable to let it go, the more he tried. The man had been staring at him, to nights in a row, and even though Goody hadn’t been able to read his intent, that didn’t mean that he didn’t- that he couldn’t- Goody shook his head and pushed his fingertips against his eyelids, rubbing. He tried breathing deeply, in through his mouth, pushing the breath out his nose. He even prayed for a memory for a second, for anything else to take over his mind, but for once it was empty. Goody realised what he’d missed then, what was so obvious all of a sudden. The man had a blank expression because anything else could get him killed. These men couldn’t walk around with an open stare, a public yearning. You had to be careful. Especially working as he did, by the bar, by the women, in such a small town. Goody had gotten the same attention from the whore last night, leaning in the same spot the stranger was currently sitting, as if it was the destined seat for the indecent folk. Goody didn’t judge though, he had had his fair share of them, was pretty sure you could call him indecent as well by now.

Something relaxed within him with the thought, the idea that perhaps he could just, _this once_ , let himself have this, and then move on. He would find a new town, new work, and try to move forward. He’d need more to drink before that though, he knew, or he would not be able to be the least stealthy about it. And he knew that the words rolled more swiftly off his tongue a couple of drinks in, so a bit more wouldn’t hurt. He reached for his glass, not looking, and accidentally pushed it over on its side, the drink dripping down onto the floor. The glass shorty followed, crashing against the floorboards. Tonight, that earned him a couple of murmurs, as the chatter died down for a second. He could swear he heard the barkeep curse to himself across the room. Goody stared at the shards, and blinked heavily when they were crushed under two black boots.

There was something strange with this man, surely, Goody decided for himself then, as he looked up and met his eyes, the stranger now standing next to his table.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he said, his voice as blank as his face, a slight accent in there somewhere. Goody frowned at how matter-of-factly the stranger said it, like there wasn’t an argument, like there actually was a limit to how much a good man could swallow in a night, and apparently Goody had reached it now.

The barkeep reached them, and huffed at the stranger to move from the shards on the floor. Goody watched as the stranger slowly stepped off the glass, and then curled a hand around Goody’s arm.

“I take you to your room,” he said, loud for the barkeep to hear, and with a quick nod towards the stairs. The barkeep hummed in bitter agreement, and stood back to let them pass. Goody stood, perhaps to quickly, because he had to rely on the stranger’s strength too much for his own liking. He had had a lot to drink, he realised. Even though it wasn’t to erase his horrors, he had kept a steady pace. It’s so easy to forget when you’re sitting, he mused, it’s so hard to tell when you’re not using your voice.

The stranger held him straight and guided him through the tables, and eventually up the stairs to the first floor. Up there, they stopped, and Goody stood with one hand against the wall for a long time, panting, the drink swirling in his stomach. Cold sweat was covering his skin, and his clothes felt restraining, too hot. Eventually the stranger tugged on his arm, and Goody met his eyes. Now, there was a raised eyebrow, and Goody needed too long to figure out what it meant before he realised. He grunted in the direction of his room, and they started to make their way over.

As they went down the hall, he found himself getting excited, and amazed at how the whole thing had solved itself, the walk from his table to the bar, to his room. No one would suspect a thing, he was sure no one had been keeping an eye on the chinaman by the bar- no one would notice that he didn’t return.

His pulse was heating his fingertips, he could feel it buzzing there, and he willed his stomach to calm down. He couldn’t survive the shame if he’d have to empty it right now, not when life suddenly decided to comply to his wishes.

The man left him against the wall as he fished out the key from Goody’s pocket and fiddled with the lock. Goody couldn’t keep himself from staring at those fingers now, and it helped that he didn’t _have_ to stop himself- he could stare as much as he liked. He could feel a grin reaching his face, it had been a while, for smiles, and for this. Finally those hands pushed down the handle, and the door swung open. Goody leaned forward, but somehow forgot his feet, and the stranger caught him on his shoulder, and supported him into the room. His hat fell off on their way in, and for a second Goody worried, wanted to pick it up. He knew he could be assumed to be more handsome under its shadow, and perhaps now the stranger would change his mind? Would see Goody in this state, disgusted, and walk away. Goody couldn’t let that happen, he’d have to show he was eager, that he’d pay, that he’d do well-

“How much,” he breathed into the man’s neck, desperate now, and _fuck_ , it’d have to be expensive, the man looked neat, smelled clean, and Goody knew what that usually meant. He’d find money in the next town. He’d spend his money tonight and then leave, it would work out.

The stranger pushed at his shoulders, but Goody shoved harder, momentum of his drunk-heavy body winning and lightly slamming the stranger into the wall. He heard a puff of air above him, and Goody tried to steady himself while his hands roamed, lips panting against a collarbone.

“How much,” he repeated, scared of the answer, but he knew it didn’t matter now, not when he’d managed to get this far. He was hard in his trousers, heart hammering in his chest.

He got his hand wrapped around a wrist, just above those lean fingers, and Goody stopped inquiring about the price, just had to get going, get this show on the road, or there wouldn’t really be much to pay for. It had happened. He had gotten himself worked up all night, built that courage, and when it finally went well, when they finally found themselves in an alley or room or behind a tree, he was just too far gone already. A bit of rutting and then he was done, and the shame didn’t hurt as bad as the disappointment and disgust in their eyes, especially when he knew it was because they just missed their payday.

Not tonight, he promised himself, bringing the hand to his face, sucking one of those pretty fingers into his mouth.

It was snatched away from him so fast it felt like a slap, and before he knew it, he was pushed to the floor, pain rising into his spine. He blinked up, the light from the hallway blinding him in the darkness of the room, making it impossible to see the stranger’s face. But Goody could see the outline, saw the man wipe his hand on his clothes, and with a disgusted grunt, he stormed out the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

Goody was too shocked to feel anything at first, but as the seconds passed by, hot, boiling shame curled all around him. Hands, arms, fingers, stomach- he felt sick to his very bones, hair standing up on the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” he cursed. “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ ” He couldn’t breathe, his lungs felt too tight, and suddenly he had to throw himself across the room, hands clutching to a bucket as he emptied his stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes goody we know ur hurt and wounded and the war was very very bad what else is new

He hadn't made it to the bed, but instead passed out on the hard floorboards, one side of his face painfully flattened against them. He woke with a heavy feeling, deep in his gut. His brain had held onto the shame from yesterday and gladly provided him with flashing memories, and a sting of arousal between the heat of his embarrassment.

It wasn't the worst state he had woken up in, by far, but it had been quite a while since he'd felt this strong an urge to just disappear.

He painfully went through the images in his head from the previous night, and put a shaky hand on the bucket next to him in case he would need it again. The drink had done its job to his stomach and was now working on his head, but the panic rising in him from yesterday’s embarrassment pressed in the top of his throat, threatening to spill out. Sweat lingered on his neck, glued his uncut hair to his forehead. He tried to focus on breathing, but the memories came back, now mixed with scenes from war: blood, unmoving bodies; those slender shoulders; dirt shooting into his face, scratching his eyes; those fingers. The more he tried not to think of it, the stronger they became, one after the other- an endless string of horrors, and whatever category yesterday’s fiasco would fall into.

He needed a drink. He needed a large, strong drink to stop it all, to silence his mind. He stood up on shaky legs and caught himself in the mirror, and the cringed at what he saw there. His reflection was murky and blurred in the darkness of the room, but there was no question as to whether he looked like absolute shit. There was no way he would be served if he tried going downstairs like this, he knew. He had seen men looking like him before, many times, and he had frowned at them, not even bothering with pity. He had had his fancy clothes, a sturdy saddle on a young horse, and a mind still untouched by life’s cruel hands. Now he felt like a smudged sketch: charcoal slowly slipping of the page, being carried away with the wind. Some of him was lost, and the rest was forever tainted.

He needed some clean clothes. Some cold water to wash his face and scrub the sick off his hands. Not yet though. His head felt like it was going to burst with the heavy beat of his pulse, so he staggered over to the bed to sit down. Without thinking, he pushed off his boots, and lay down to bury his face in the pillow. It stunk, although probably not as bad as he did, so he turned over onto his back, and wished for another couple of hours of blank, botherless sleep.

 

When he woke again, he could tell it was already late. The roar from the gamblers and drinkers downstairs snuck through the wooden floor, and the room was so dark he could barely see his hands in front of him. He managed to make his way to the window, and shoved the heavy curtains aside, staring at a starry sky far above. There were two black birds sitting on the rooftop across from him. He hastily pulled the curtains back into place, and lit the lamp by his bed. With a prickle under his skin, he unpacked his last set of clean clothes, tossing the ones he had been wearing into a corner. He really needed to get away from here, a feeling of unrest creeping into him. He needed to move and breathe and not be so still. It had been a bad idea to stay in one place so long, he decided. Like his memories had fully caught up with him after him remaining this still.

He had had too much of this, and perhaps he could even admit, too much to drink. He would leave tomorrow, by early morning. Pay for his room and spend the last of his money on food, and then grab the horse and get going. But first he needed something to eat.

 

A meal never comes without a drink, of course. And this late into the night, he couldn’t even get a table. For some reason it was even more crowded than usual, and his old, solitary table in the corner had been shoved closer to the action, now packed with heavy-set men and flashing ladies. He rubbed his eyes slowly, and decided to try one of the calmer tables, some men sitting around a game, all loud but not rowdy.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, his voice raspy and weirdly loud in his ears. It felt like ages since he used it.

“You play?” one of the men murmured, his eyes not leaving the cards in his hands. Goody glanced around the room quickly, one last time, and decided this was the only seat he’d get tonight, so he just grunted affirmingly. The man gave a jerk with his head and Goody took that as a welcome, and slid the chair out and sat with his drink.

“Let us finish this one, and you’ll be in the next game, old man,” smiled a handsome fella across from him, and Goody tried to hide the twitch at the comment. He knew he looked used, tired, but to hear it from a stranger- from someone his age, nonetheless, was just painful. He felt older, though, he felt like he’d lived longer than these young men, like his days had stretched further than theirs, the sun moving slower over his head. A punishment for his crimes. Somewhere through the noise in the saloon, a bird screeched. Goody closed his eyes and took big gulps of his whiskey.

 

His food didn’t come fast enough, and he was halfway through his second glass before he accepted the plate from the barkeep. He could swear he could hear the liquid sway in his stomach as he moved, and it made him tense. He hadn’t meant to drink. Not much. But his movements were already slow, heavy as he was moving through water, and his mind was quickly relaxing into the same setting.

He had lost a lot of money on their first game; he had been bolder than necessary, dumber than usual, but he had wanted to prove something. He wasn’t sure of what exactly- he had never been even a decent gambler. His food proved a good excuse to miss out on the next game, and he ate slowly, careful not to upset the alcohol he’d already swallowed.

When he was finished with the food, he took care of the rest of his drink as he waited for the next game. _Might as well_ , he reasoned, _would be a shame to waste a whiskey already paid for._

He was looking around the room, bored with whatever cards were being dealt before him, and found himself staring straight at his stranger. The man was in the same seat as the previous nights, and alone, as usual. His head was hanging low and his back was against the noise of the saloon. Goody couldn’t help thinking that that was an unnecessarily stupid approach to being a chinaman in this country. Men would want to shoot him left and right, as if he as much as came near them- and here he was, sitting in their bar, drinking, with his back against them as if he was feeling as safe as by his mother’s breast.

Seeing the man again reminded Goody of yesterday’s failure, and he made himself wonder why it had turned out the way it did. He had offered to pay, of course, had urgently brought it up, even. If the stranger had doubted that he had the coin for it, he could’ve just asked. But no, Goody had been left bruised and straining on the floor, not a word to explain his pain. The man had even offered to take him to his room, had stared at him for days- he had clearly seen Goody for who he was, who he tried not to be. Goody worried, not for the first time, that others indeed could tell, just by a glance, at what he had done in the past, what he sometimes wished for with fellow men.

So why had he been dismissed? Why had the stranger so rudely left him there, and yet dared to come back today, acting as if his most eager customer didn’t matter?

Before Goody knew what he was doing, he was bumping his knees into the table, earning him a couple of annoyed grunts from the gamblers. He was making his way across the floor when the stranger turned, spotted him, and immediately slid out of his seat and strode to the door. Goody’s step haltered at the sight, a frown curling his brow. Yet he kept going, keeping his balance on chairs as he focused on the door.

The night was chilly, but it woke Goody up somewhat, it stinging his heated skin. He leaned against the wall and caught his breath, again disappointed in how he’d let himself drink tonight, how he had spent more money than he should. Worries of his ride tomorrow slunk into his mind; he pictured himself leaning on a sandy rock, a pain in his stomach, an empty satchel, a small crackling fire, and not a town in sight. He would starve. And the birds would feast on his bones.

 

“You follow me.” The voice made him flinch, and he turned, spotting the stranger leaning towards the wall on the other side of the door, his features highlighted and shadowed in the moonlight. Goody frowned at him, at the silence of the man, at his forever monotone voice.

“Yeah, well-” Goody started, and stumbled as he arranged his feet to face the other man, and he could swear he heard him sigh- something short, irritated.

“You drunk.” Again, the statement came with such authority, its bluntness riling Goody up.

“Last night-” he began again, louder this time, but the stranger shook his head.

“You also drunk.” Goody gave an exasperated grunt. He walked over, and had to put way too much effort into not swaying, not slipping down the few wooden steps onto the sand. The stranger seemed to tense in his presence, and maybe that was a clue, Goody theorised, but he couldn’t focus long enough to decide for _what._

“The point isn’t-” he slurred, facing the man, closing the distance. “It doesn’t matter, the point- it’s not.” The stranger didn’t interrupt him again, but Goody paused for a second, trying to find anger in that face, but it remained the same. Calm, chilly. Goody made the mistake of glancing down. Between two fingers hung a short, slowly embering cigarette, and Goody couldn’t stop himself from thinking, _remembering,_ one of those fingers in his mouth. It hadn’t tasted like tobacco last night, had it? His mouth watered, but he couldn’t recall.

“‘M drunk ‘rry night,” he mumbled, lower this time, but just as annoyed. It felt more like a confession than he liked. “Does it matter?” he urged. “I g-got money, my coin’s good as anyone else’s.” It was too close to begging, but he knew, had known yesterday, that he wouldn’t be able to let this man go until he had touched him, had been touched at least a little. It was an obsession that so easily could go too far, get too dangerous.

“Maybe I do not want your coin,” the stranger said then, and Goody was too far away still, but he imagined that breath on him in the cold now. He wondered if he’d felt it yesterday; he missed the huff of someone else’s air on his skin.

“T’s easy money,” he insisted, upset now, shame coming back to him in bursts, swaying with the alcohol in him. “Easier cus I’m drunk.” His eyes itched, they were stinging with something that wasn’t tears. He rubbed his brow, just to not rub his eyelids. The stranger didn’t say anything, and Goody didn’t dare look up now, didn’t want to see that disgust in his eyes. A whore sure saw a lot of indecent folk, but _begging_? He stared at the ashes falling off the cigarette.

The creak of the wood underneath his feet made him flick his eyes up, and the strangers was side-stepping away from him, making his way from the saloon. Goody grabbed his wrist, harder than intended, desperate. The stranger stiffened under his grip, and Goody could feel the muscles clench; there was a punch coming, or maybe a slash with one of them elegant knives. He pulled, tugged the stranger back towards him, eyes closed and ready for the pain, as he pushed against him. He didn’t think before leaning forward: didn’t worry of the caw of the birds surrounding them; didn’t consider the door next to them, the non-approving patrons beyond it. His lips found soft skin, a jaw, the edge of a mouth. His pulse pumped in his ears, and he gasped towards the now wet skin, eyes still closed, hand locked around the other man’s arm.

“Just-” he breathed, exasperated, the stranger tense and still, unnaturally so. “Just let me-” he leaned in harder, pushing his mouth fully onto the other man’s now, his free hand settling against his hip. He licked at the lips in front of him, could smell the scent of alcohol on his own breath, a slight taste of tobacco under it.

“Please,” he sighed, brow aching with how hard he was forcing his eyes closed. He left the unmoving mouth, and sucked under the jaw instead, licked and nipped, and there was a soft moment where he thought the other man relaxed, and it urged him on, eager now. Goody’s hand was clutching his hip, his broad hand curving around it. His thumb fit neatly in the grove beneath his abdomen, and he moved it in slow circles there. He didn’t dare let go of the arm he was still holding, terrified of rejection, he wouldn’t survive it. Not again.

He sucked, hard, against the skin, and wasn’t that- that was a sigh above him? It was soft, barely there, but Goody could swear..

He moved his hips then, urgent and uncoordinated, slotting one of the stranger’s legs between his. And now there was movement, the man in front of him went if possible even more tense, stiffened further against the wall.

“C’mon,” he urged, heartbeat racing and skin itching, focusing on the other side of the stranger’s neck. He let his hand leave the hip and shoved it in between them- and that was, _surely, there was no mistake there, the stranger was-_

The door of the saloon opened, loud, too loud in Goody’s ears. The hand between their bodies was gripped immediately, and there they stood, two fools, both clutching the other’s arm, holding it up, holding it back.

The man who’d stepped out into the night lit a cigarette, and then turned, seeing them there. Goody’s blood went cold. There was no way this could be seen as anything else than what it was, and it was, after all, _illegal._

“Oh no,” started the man, shaking his head dangerously, hat threatening to fall off, and neither Goody or the stranger moved. “You better get the fuck out of dodge, or real soon you’ll both be missin’ parts.”

It was a blessing, Goody knew, such a mild reaction- but he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place for what felt like forever, until the stranger let go of his hand, tugged his arm free, and started down the stairs. Goody swayed into motion, towards the door, but the man stepped in front of him, and stared him down under the hat.

“You didn’ hear what I jus’ said?” he growled, disgust now clear on his face. Goody swallowed, sweat now running down his temple, voice too weak to work. He shook his head, corrected himself, nodded.

“Then fuck off,” the man hissed, and Goody ran.

 

He needed his horse. He was drunk off his ass, panicked, and there were birds everywhere, on every rooftop. He needed his horse, he needed to leave. He somehow found the stables, the door already open, and he worried for a second that they’d already gotten to his horse, could see it cut open and bleeding in the hay. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the inside, saw his horse there, safe, but there was noises coming from further in. Sounds of moving around and that unnerved shimmy horses do when they’re tied up but their mind is already fleeing. Goody grabbed the nearest bridle he could find, fumbled with the reins and the buckles, but this was something he’d done a million times- drunk, half dead, even when he was barely tall enough to reach that high.

Hooves thundered by him, heavy steps on the soft ground beneath them, and Goody squinted and saw the stranger, already atop his horse in the stables, guiding his horse out the door.

“Hey,” Goody grunted, not sure what he wanted, but the stranger twitched, and turned, not stopping. He might have imagined it, but there was a nod, the slightest nod, and he forgot all about a saddle, about his bags. He mounted his horse and followed the stranger out into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

He had to grip harder than he liked, just to stay on the horse. His hands were clenched in its mane, the coarse hairs burning against his fingers as they moved, the reins lying loose in his lap. The land was dark around him, the faint moonlight just softly touching trees and bushes, leaving him feeling half blind. Goody let the horse follow the stranger, and clenched his thighs to secure himself.

It wasn’t long until he was panting, head pounding harder than ever: filled with blood and panic, the loud noise of his horse beneath him. The hooves were thumping hard, and Goody anticipated each leap with a cringe, each time they connected with the ground shook him off-center, poked at his headache.

He couldn’t keep up much longer, his hands cramping where they clutched the poor horse’s neck, his legs weak and shaking as he tried to keep upright. There was no way of telling how long they had been riding, for Goody it felt like hours, like the sun should have met them long ago- but he knew as well that it could just as easily have been half an hour, the town still visible on the horizon behind them.

The stranger was ahead of him, his horse faster and more focused than Goody’s, and Goody feared losing them in the gloom, panicked at being left alone in the night.

Uneven ground made his horse stumble, and Goody flew forward, cracking his nose against its neck. White-hot pain seared through his face, and he shouted out, trying to seat himself again. Half-lying on top of the horse now, he had no support from his legs, and before he knew it, he was slipping, strands escaping through his fingers as his body was shoved off. He hit the ground hard, hands flying up to protect his face from the racing hooves, but all that hit him was some stray dirt. For a long moment he couldn’t hear, wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or not, and no air would come into his lungs, no matter how much he gasped. Despite his numb senses, he knew his horse hadn’t stopped with his abrupt dismount- he’d always been like that, more loyal to other horses than to his owner.

He tried not to panic, tried to let the fall sink out of his body, but the absence of air and the heavy taste of blood in his mouth threw him straight back into memories of war. There were horses shrieking and dirt flying and he was sure that this what it- he was dying here, right now. There were vultures circling up ahead, their dark silhouettes somehow visible in the night sky.

 

His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth when he woke, and first that was all he could take notice of- that and the taste of copper that was still resting there. Slowly other parts of him woke, and he opened his eyes, the brightness of the day making him squint. He found himself half laid back against the trunk of a tree, feet poking up towards the blue sky. Before him stood his horse, reins loosely tied to a branch, and another grazing beside it.

Goody frowned, and sure enough, the next thing he saw glancing to his left was the stranger: slowly sharpening one of those shiny knives, hat low to hold back the sun.

Goody took a deep breath through his mouth, and coughed at the dryness there. It tore through his lungs and suddenly his whole body was aching- his nose, his chest, all the way down his spine.

He tried to calm the coughs rasping at his insides, but with every breath came another, and he couldn’t stop it.

“Here.” His head snapped up at the stranger suddenly standing close, a small tin cup held out towards him. Goody grabbed it with an unsteady hand and emptied it into his mouth, relieved.

As he caught his breath, he studied the stranger, slowly returning to his seat and picking up his knife again. Next to him were two big satchels, and Goody thought he saw some food there, some more bottles of water. Or whiskey. He could really do with some whiskey right now, before the memories from yesterday came back to haunt him. He thought of the birds, but today the sky was empty, and he sighed.

He sat still for a while, unsure what to do, unsure how he’d ended up where he was, why this stranger had cared to stay with him. When he turned his head, he saw no sign of the path they had taken last night, no town at the end of the dry sand around them. _He must have turned back for me_ , Goody realized, shocked, and uncomfortable at the thought. He had nothing of value with him- not his hat, not even a saddle for his horse. He didn't even have the old pocket watch in his vest, he patted it to check. It must have fallen off him as he fell. He mused that he didn’t even carry his dignity these days, and he considered the reasons this man had had to not leave him there, dying in the night.

“You think very loud,” he then was told, the stranger not even looking up with the comment. Goody frowned again, slowly massaging blood into his hands as he studied the other man.

“Someone has to compensate for your silence. Anyone ever tell you you’re not much of a talker?” The other man turned his head up to face him then, and his expression wasn’t blank this morning- Goody could easily tell that he was bothered, irritated.

“Very unwise, what you did yesterday,” he said instead, averting Goody’s question, dismissing it for what it was- a defense mechanism, a desperate distraction.

“What? Getting drunk? Nothin’ wrong with that, last time I checked.” The stranger let his hands fall to rest on his lap. Something about him fully focused on Goody made him feel uneasy, like he had to be sharper just to keep up.

“Kiss a man,” clarified the stranger frankly, and Goody choked at that, shocked by the bluntness, even though it was very true.

“I-” he started, but those eyes on him made him falter, lose his thread. The stranger went back to the knife.

“That’s pretty hypocritical coming from someone like _you_ ,” Goody observed, voice found again, as he leaned back to study the leaves above him. “You know what _hypocritical_ means? Pretty fancy word, maybe they don’t teach it to whores-” The knife sizzled past Goody’s head with a soft sound, the crackle from the struck wood beside him making him twitch. He reared back, staring unbelieving at the weapon buried in the tree, just next to where his head had been resting. He didn’t feel it at first, too shocked by the action, but soon enough there were hot drops trickling down his ear, onto his collar. He cringed at the pain when he felt for the wound with his fingertips, and brought the hand back down, staring at the red there. The world tilted for a second, his vision blurring over.

“You-” he started, unsure of how to finish the sentence. _You fucking idiot! You could have fucking killed me!_ He looked up at the stranger now standing, shoulders tense and pulled up high. He was breathing so hard his whole chest was heaving with it, his face scrunched up in fury. Goody threw his hands up in resignation when he spotted that face, the anger there.

“ _S-shit_ ,” he managed, not sure of what to say. He expected the horrors to come now, make themselves known again when he was so close to death, but there was nothing. His mind was white and blank, and he could feel his eyes watering. He had a thought about how he’d wanted to die for months, and felt conflicted with the amount of fear he’d felt just now, when he thought the knife had properly struck him. He felt betrayed by his instincts- by their desperate need to keep going; he was so very tired.

“Do not call me that,” the stranger hissed out between clenched teeth, and Goody cringed at the words, realizing that it was the _word_ that had triggered this outburst of violence, not the rude comment. Goody nodded quickly, hands still up. The stranger took three long strides towards him, bent down, and Goody flinched back, but all the man did was to unhinge the knife from the tree. He returned to his previous spot, and Goody could see him forcing himself to relax before he slowly lowered himself onto the ground again.

As he started to work on the knife, Goody heard him mutter something to himself, something angry and acidic, in a language Goody could only dream of understanding.

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-” Goody didn’t know what he wanted to say, how he could apologise, but the stranger interrupted him by tearing his eyes from his weapon and shooting Goody a poisonous look.

“You think I am a whore?” The last word was spat out, punctuated by a push of the whetstone against the knife.

For a moment, Goody’s world crumbled, his vision going out, shame taking its place.

“Perhaps you are the whore?” the stranger continued, his words now sharp and mocking, the question not really asking for an answer. “It is you, going to men, kissing men, talking of money.”

Goody felt sweat blooming on his skin, felt it under his collar, on his hands. He was aware of his still bleeding ear, and looking down at his hands, he saw how he had rubbed them together, making a mess of his blood there.

“I’m so sorry,” he managed after a long silence, but it evoked no response from the other man. “I didn’t know- I thought..” He found the stranger’s eyes on him again, and left it there, afraid of making it worse. If that even was possible.

He had lots of questions born out of this shameful revelation, but he knew to shut up for now, and kept them for himself. Yet it poked at him, a mantra circling his brain. _Why didn’t he leave me, why didn’t he leave me, why didn’t he leave me._

He stared at the man before him for a while, his slow, steady movements on the knife. The sun was hot and high in the sky, and Goody considered the uncertainty of his future now when he was without all his possessions. He still had some coin in his left pocket of his trousers, and when he fished for it, he first pulled out the key to his room at the inn. He imagined the barkeep banging on the door, eventually breaking down the door, frowning at the state of the room. He’d left his dirty clothes on the floor, the bucket still filled with sick. Goody decided he needed to get far, far away from there, further than he already had come. He wondered how long they had ridden last night, how much further the stranger had moved him after his fall.

 

“You have a plan?” the stranger asked then, voice calm now, steady. Goody snapped his head to face him, surprised that somehow he hadn’t been the first to talk. He shook his head.

“No, I mean- I need to go.” The other man nodded.

“Wise. Yet you have no saddle. You have no food. You have no money,” Goody poked at the few coins in his pocket through the fabric of his trousers, “You have nothing. And that- very unwise.”

“I know,” Goody admitted, knowing that there was no reason to argue. He was truly in deep shit.

“And me, your _saviour_ ,” the man's accent struggled with the word, “you call a whore.” Goody blushed at the comment, clenching his hands together. He remembered the blood there and went to rub it off on his clothes, yet halted in the middle of the movement- remembering how expensive the suit had been, how it was also almost the only thing to his name at the moment. He let his hands settle on the sand instead.

“Thank you,” he said, dragging out the last word into a questioning tone, waiting for the stranger to finish the sentence.  

“Billy”, Billy said.

“That isn’t your real name, is it?” Goody blurted. Billy raised an eyebrow at him and Goody just nodded.

“I’m Goodnight Robicheaux.”

“That isn’t your real name, is it?” Billy copied, almost flawlessly. Goody was too taken aback to do much more than blush.

“Well, thank you, Billy. For not leaving me back there.” Billy nodded, and just as Goody went to ask _why_ , the other man gave him a look that didn’t welcome any more questions on the subject.

“You got a plan?” Goody asked instead, trying to tread lightly. He saw his rescuer smile for the first time then, and even though it was bitter, it made him ease slightly.

“I do,” he answered, looking Goody over. “But for it, I need good white man- good gambler.” Goody cringed at the word _good_ , knowing all too well he did not fit into that description right now, hadn’t in a very long time.

When Goody didn’t say anything else, he continued:

“I help you now, we get money, we share. You pay me back.”

 

Goody had been shocked at the proposal, was prepared to be left by the tree with his horse and die out there, even though it didn’t make sense as to how Billy had saved him earlier. His _saviour_. He hadn’t dared question the plan, had just nodded and that seemed to please the other man, setting him into motion.

Soon they were on their horses again, Goody for some reason nervous of a second fall, even though it sometimes felt like he’d unmounted his horse with less grace more times than he’d had dinner. He’d grown up around horses and early on learnt that there was nothing to fear with falling, as long as you anticipated it, acted quickly. Yet now he was shaking, his hands twitching as they held the reins- making his horse skittish. He had to loosen them to make the animal relax its neck again, but his own shaking didn’t stop.

He could tell that Billy was holding back his own horse to let Goody keep up, and it both annoyed him and made him grateful.

 

When the sun started hiding from them, Goody was shaking for different reasons. He hadn’t eaten in a whole day, and his body was tense from keeping upright on his horse without the saddle. Not to mention that without the heat from the sun, a cutting chill crept around them.

Billy set up camp, lit a small fire, watered the horses with what Goody realized was their last bottle, and settled down on his bedding as he heated some food.

“You don’t happen to have any whiskey in there?” Goody hoped, his voice dry after the day’s long, quiet ride. Billy shot him one of those looks he used to get from his father when he’d said a particularly silly, incorrect, or stupid thing. Goody swallowed.

“No whiskey for you,” Billy said calmly, “Or you can stay here. Do your plan.” _So, alcohol or die, essentially_ , Goody thought, his hands clenching at the thought.

“Yes?” Billy insisted, and Goody nodded quickly.

“Yes.” His throat felt drier than it had in a long time.

  
Billy had extra bedding but only one blanket, so Goody placed himself closer to the fire, hands shoved under his arms. With them tightly slotted in, he could pretend the shaking hadn’t gotten worse, that the tremors weren’t itching in his wrists now, too. He closed his eyes, and watched the flames color his eyelids red.


	4. update yo

so, there is a new chapter coming! it's from Billy's point of view but it isn't finished yet, and tomorrow,  _gulp_ , is the start of nanowrimo. i will (unfortunately) work on something else for november, but expect an update as soon as i return from my marathon writing in early december ok thx for all the kudos and the love xx


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